The Slocan Ramblers are driven by the cause of bluegrass, an evocative expression that compels them to find the courage to embrace a deep nook and take certain risks and work damn hard at it. This band of four comes out of Toronto’s musical milieu, and on their third album, Queen City Jubilee, the Slocan Ramblers blend innovative and traditional songs with instrumental tunes, tapping the familiar (and perennially inspiring) vein of Appalachian music; in the process, they’ve exposed a subtler facet of the folk and Americana genres.
Queen City Jubilee is a smart bluegrass album, but the gents can turn any one of the 13 songs into a playground, a jamboree, or into the stuff of big dreams. Its tracks not only bring people together who can appreciate a good story but also deliver a smile to the face of the listener who expects honesty and wants to discover the world. Marvelous picking and clear, proud vocals convey the seriousness of the lyrical situation without becoming unrelatable, endowing listeners with more than a couple of reasons to reside with them on every note.
The band hails from Toronto’s “Hogtown,” where apparently bluegrass is commonly played into the early morning hours in rowdy clubs in the former pigmeat-packing quarters with the same seriousness of a Western Kentucky fiddle session out on the porch. Perhaps that explains why Queen City Jubilee feels old-world but not maddeningly derivative; it’s an album that rings with the simple human need to share stories and swap melodies, a cross between an all-night Appalachian shindig and the transparently personal assertions made and then sufficiently verified.
Bluegrass can be a niche offering, a career that could be a balm as well as an acid. Yet, the Slocan Ramblers prove on this outing that they’re not playing music for the flicker but the substance, picking intensely through traditional and original pieces. It’s entertaining, instructive – and it is possibly even healing, a great articulation of what it is like to live with bluegrass.
“Mississippi Heavy Water Blues” is pure rural backwater Southern delight. “Hill To Climb” is a jaunty, catchy jam with all of the comfortable emotional sanctums of its lyrics. Close your eyes and play this one out in the backyard with the barbecue stoking, fireflies twinkling, and crickets chirping.
“Long Chain Charlie and Moundsville” is a lonesome rendition with vocals calmer than marble. “First Train In The Morning” brings relief and recognition to all those who want someone to put what they feel, or what their loved ones feel, into words. It carries a message of grief and despair of Old Southern proportions, yet the desperado vocals spark an innate likability and a folksy decency that shines through. “Shut The Door” rounds out the devout picking, speckled and sharp with dexterity.
Kudos to the Toronto quartet and their fierce, monastic dedication to bluegrass, which all but certainly provided them with a scene that was educational; from it they manufactured their own wisdom and respect of lore. Banjo player Frank Evans pays homage to the wider bluegrass world and its roots in working-class communities, alternating between the clawhammer and Earl Scruggs-resonant banjo. Mandolinist Adrian Gross speedily and assertively makes the most of every opportunity. Bassist Alastair Whitehead adds yet another layer of value in his softer vocals and jarring vitality. Guitarist Darryl Poulsen sticks with every curve and contour, moving like greased lightning when the pace picks up.
Queen City Jubilee feels confident, but not too confident. Like the very best of any art, the record strikes that balance between humility and confidence. The quartet understands that they don’t have all the answers, but they sound confident enough to take risks and assert themselves.
The deepest certainty revealed on Queen City Jubilee is that the Slocan Ramblers will be a hunk of the bluegrass scaffolding for many years to come.
Journalist and author Brian D’Ambrosio is based in Santa Fe, New Mexico and Helena, Montana. He can be reached at dambrosiobrian@hotmail.com